1923
The two brown doors of the public house were closed, which was strange, because it was almost twelve o'clock, well beyond opening time. Brigade Police Officer Patrick-Joe Brosnan turned up the collar of his military coat against the rain and banged on the door again with his fist, one last time — thump-thump-thump — no longer expecting an answer. The motor engine was growling behind him and he turned and shrugged his shoulders at Private O'Dwyer, sitting dry at the wheel of the army lorry, enjoying a cigarette. O'Dwyer made a gesture back at him, but the downpour was so thick he couldn't properly see.
He went across and stuck his head in under the car canopy, a small respite. "What are you saying to me?"
"The door of the house, down the far end," he said, pointing. "You might have
